


In Stone

by relucant



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 4.01, Lazarus Rising, M/M, More tags to be added, graveyards, or abandoned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-13
Updated: 2014-09-13
Packaged: 2018-02-17 06:44:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2300231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/relucant/pseuds/relucant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean meets Cas a little differently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Stone

**Author's Note:**

> Yesterday I was biking through the Ohio hills and was actually told that if I needed cell phone reception I had to go to the cemetery at the top of the hill. I was like either I'm too involved in Supernatural or I'm actually going to die here. So I wrote this and I have not yet decided whether to try to make it into a thing or not; please advise.

“A _graveyard_ , Dean?” Sam hissed. “What the fuck are you thinking? It’s almost _dark_. Have you lost your mind?”

“The local Marriott was all booked up, fuck you very much,” Dean snapped. He rubbed his forehead. “Look, Sammy, I ain’t exactly got happy memories of graves lately, so I’m not so thrilled to be hangin’ out here either. But I’ve had fuck-all reception since fuckin’ Columbus, and the chick at the weird country store told me to try the cemetery. Said they all have to come here to use their phones.”

“Yeah, and that sounds totally clean and legit.”

“Well, she wasn’t lyin’, at least,” Dean said. “Still barely at two bars, though. Dude, just figure out where I need to go and how to get there and call me back. Or text me, since -- Sam? Sammy? _Fuck_.”

He paced through the neat rows, keeping carefully to the lit pathways, and punched at his phone, glaring at the _Call Failed_ messages. The fading sun cast all the marble ornaments in a dull crepuscular light, headstones and statuaries tinged with the same dusky orange glow.

“Fuckin’ creepy-ass shit,” Dean grumbled, yanking down the sleeves of his flannel. Twin cherubs kept vigil over a baby’s grave, their faces cracked with a century of mourning, and fresh flowers lay over a plot so fresh its outlines were still visible.

In a far corner, half-hidden by a hanging willow tree, a tall sculpture caught his eye. It loomed five or six feet high, but its outlines were obscured in the shadows. Dean wandered towards it, still glancing at his phone in irritation.

As he drew closer, he realized it was an elaborate carving of an angel, perched like a guardian, bare feet balanced directly atop the gravestone. Its legs were bent in a crouch, arms folded on the knees as if resting, or waiting, face turned downwards. Huge wings covered most of its body, chiseled down its back and over its shoulders, so that only the alabster arms were visible. The twilight filtered through the willow leaves left its surfaces dappled in pale shadows.

“Jesus,” Dean muttered, pausing a few feet away. He glanced down to see what poor dead schmuck merited such a tribute, but the headstone was curiously blank.

When he looked back up, the statue’s eyes were open, unearthly blue shimmering in the gloom.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Dean yelped, reaching for his knife even as he fell back in shock, but the statue-creature only regarded him calmly, unmoving.

“You should not be here, Dean Winchester,” it finally said, voice as gravelly as the stone from which it was carved.

“Who,” Dean said, breathing shallow, “ who -- what are you?”

“I’m angel of the Lord,” it said. “I should have thought that was obvious.” Aside from its eyes still fixed on Dean, its face was still obscured in shadow, hiding any expression.

“An angel?” Dean scoffed, even as he gripped the knife tighter. “What, gonna throw me back in time when I blink?”

The creature cocked its head, almost imperceptibly, the first hint of movement in its chiseled outlines, but it didn’t reply.

Suddenly it sprang from the gravestone in one sinuous motion, and as it moved into a clearing Dean realized with a jolt that what the half-light had cast into marble and stone was smooth skin and flexing muscles. It was unsettlingly human in face and form, despite the massive wings now shining ink-black in the growing moonlight.

In an instant it was behind Dean, and he felt the air crackle with ominous energy. Some of it centered on the angel, but other tendrils skittered across the grass, coalescing and dissolving over the graves. Dean whipped around, barely keeping his footing.

“Who _are_ you?” Dean whispered, raising his knife.

“Castiel,” it said simply. “I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from Perdition.”

The ball of white-hot fear in his belly coiled into fury. “Yeah?” he hissed, reaching back. “Thanks for that.”

He plunged his knife into the angel’s chest and fell back, ready to fight, but it just glanced down, impassive.

“Dean,” it said, tugging the blade out and tossing it to the ground. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Yeah, ‘m gettin’ that,” Dean muttered. Behind him the early-evening mist seemed to be absorbing viscosity, and the wind carried with it echoes of whispers and growls. “All right, _angel_ , what -- what is this?”

“The Rising of the Witnesses,” it said, eyes finally leaving Dean’s face to track the movement in the graveyard.

“The Rising of the -- what?”

“The Witnesses,” Castiel said, almost distracted. “One of the 66 Seals.”

“Ah,” Dean said. “Thanks for clearing that up.”

“The ghosts of those you couldn’t save,” it said, in a voice neither cold nor sympathetic. “Lilith is summoning them to come after _you_.”

With that the angel disappeared, and Dean found himself swaying unsteadily outside a nondescript motel room, his knife clean and in his hand, and the anger flared up again.

“So that’s it, then?” he yelled at the empty air. “Seals and Witnesses, coming after _me_? You blink me out of a swarming graveyard and then you fucking disappear without a word? Fucking _dick_!” He heard his voice climbing into hysteria, ignoring the curtains down the hall being inched open.

There was a rustling behind him, and then hot breath on his neck. “There’s a bigger picture here, Dean Winchester,” the voice whispered like whiskey in his ear. “You should show me some respect.”

It disappeared in another shudder of the air, and at the same time the motel door was flung open.

“Dean!” Sam gasped, seizing his wrist. He dragged him inside and slammed the door. “Jesus fuck, dude, there’s some serious shit going down, and it all seems to be starting --”

“-- where I was,” Dean finished, suddenly exhausted.

“Uh… yeah,” Sam said. “Bobby’s having a shit-fit, I was about to go after you, wherever the fuck you were... Did you, y’know… notice anything?”

Dean let out a muffled snort, falling onto one of the beds.

“Sammy?” he said, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “You… you still got no problem believin’ in angels?”

**Author's Note:**

> comments, criticism, advice and whatever always welcome, or just come say hi at my [tumblr](http://relucant.tumblr.com/).
> 
> I'm nice.


End file.
